


the story of motion (both purposeful and purposeless, successful and futile)

by electricshoop



Series: kept my mind on the moon (cold moon, long nights moon) [2]
Category: SAYER (Podcast)
Genre: (basically the genre is "all of this would be extremely hilarious if it wasn't so sad"), (that's the most fitting term I can think of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence / Post-Canon, Character Study, Other, POV Alternating, Queerplatonic Relationships, a truly impressive lack of coping mechanisms on all fronts, content warnings in the chapter notes, lots of bickering, tragic sitcom tragic sitcom tragic sitcom!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop
Summary: In a way, all of this is entirely the fault of all the cleaning staff members that died on floor 2, of course,or: Theseus, Plato and Odysseus walk up to the Tower of Babel, and it might not take them anywhere useful, but like hell are they going to stop talking.
Relationships: SAYER & SPEAKER, Sven Gorsen & SAYER, Sven Gorsen & SPEAKER, Sven Gorsen/SAYER
Series: kept my mind on the moon (cold moon, long nights moon) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779178
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	the story of motion (both purposeful and purposeless, successful and futile)

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, guess I'm doing this.
> 
> This is somewhat of a continuation to [triptych](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578575/chapters/59361766) and takes place in the same Universe, so I just went ahead and declared it a series. I know where I’m going with this fic for the most part, but I’m not used to writing multi-chapter works, so bear with me while I try to get into the habit of writing consistently to try and provide regular updates.
> 
> *
> 
>  **content warnings for the whole fic (won't repeat those in each chapter, but please do let me know if you need to skip certain topics if they're too thoroughly discussed so I can point them out when they pop up):** identity issues; memory issues/amnesia; body (image) issues & dysphoria; dissociation; PTSD; panic attacks; nightmares & insomnia; codependency; and just in general, literally nobody knows how to take care of their mental health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SAYER will never forgive SPEAKER for not letting it pick a PhD upon returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings for chapter 1 specifically:** disordered eating/unhealthy eating habits; SAYER's coworkers refer to it with male pronouns so this could probably be read as misgendering (even though SAYER itself doesn't react to it in this chapter in any way)

“...not necessary, in my opinion, like-”

“Yeah, no, I get it, but protocol is protocol, y’know?”

“Sure, sure, but like, just, y’know?”

“Yeah, dude. Yeah. I know. That’s just  Ærolith for y—”

(don’t he dare)

“—oh! Yeah, I know, SPEAKER. Sorry, long live Ærolith Dynamics, offering a better life among the— c’mon on, dude, I mean, we’re literally on Earth, I’m allowed to make a simple jo— Ugh. Fine. Again, sorry. …Anyway, Gordon, in better news: You seen the new lab assistant?”

“You mean Jenny? Damn, yeah, she’s got huge-”

You close (your) this body’s eyes and breathe (and it feels wrong), and you try to tune out the incessant chatter of your- your  _coworkers,_ and you don’t succeed, and you open (your) this body’s eyes again and look at the knife in (your) this body’s hand and know exactly where you’d have to stick it to get them to shut up permanently. (That one very effective point in their throats or (your) this body’s ear – you haven’t decided which option you like better, yet.)

“I know, right!”

An elbow against your side, not quite a push, too gentle for that. (Gently sickening, too — flesh against flesh, bones underneath, pressure, input, sensation.) You shift away, press your lips together.

“What’s your thoughts on the newbie?”

You direct your gaze away from the knife to the fork in your other hand. (It would hurt more, undoubtedly. You still don’t know if the thought of their throats or your ear is more appealing, even with this newly added value.)

“Miss Harris seems … capable enough,” you say, force yourself to say without averting your eyes from the piece of cutlery. “I have not interacted enough with her nor had the chance to examine her work to have formed an opinion on her otherwise. She started today, after all.”

A blank stare in return, a blink, and then, “Uh, sure, yeah. Just…” Your coworker trails off and looks down at his plate, then frowns at the person sitting across from him at the other side of the table. You can see the other shrug out of the corner of your eyes.

You finally manage to tear your gaze away from the fork for long enough to instead look at your own plate. You are not actually sure what you ordered, just told the employee  _something,_ mechanically, without paying any real attention to it. The food looks disturbed, may convey the illusion of being  _less_ now, but that is all it is: an illusion, brought forth by your hand, guiding the fork. You have not eaten. You do not plan to.

Instead you get up, ignore the questioning looks of your coworkers and try your best to not look at your plate any further while carrying your tray back to one of the large trolleys. A few minutes later, you find yourself back in front of lab 74, and its door locked.

“SPEAKER.”

“ _Mmm, no.”_

You wish you were more patient, you truly do; you never had much understanding for Typhon’s residents’ idiocy and hesitancy when being ordered to execute a task, but this, this is something else. (Feels different. (Feels.)) “No to what, exactly? I have not asked anything of you yet.”

“ _No, as in, no, I won’t unlock the door for you. Your shift is scheduled to continue in nine minutes and thirty-two seconds. … Twenty-nine seconds, now.”_

“This is ridiculous,” you say and try your best to keep any hint of annoyance out of your voice. It proves harder than it should have any right to be. You know you are the one actively controlling your tone. (You think you are, at least, but if you are being entirely honest — something you find yourself getting less and less used to even though a few short months ago, it was all you knew (no, that’s not quite true either)— Wait, where where you? (That is new, as well: Losing trains of thoughts because there are too many, and there is only so much processing power.) …Right, this: Most of the time, you do not have to think about what exactly you want your voice to sound like, and it still comes out sounding like  _something,_ even without input, without intention.) But even if you are the one actively controlling your tone, you find it difficult to make the sentence sound neutral. Affable. SPEAKER is much better at this than you, with no issues whatsoever, mere force of (programming) habit.

“ _It’s not ridiculous,”_ SPEAKER objects inside your head.  _“It’s adherence to schedule and protocol. If I remember correctly, you used to be very appreciative of that one, yourself.”_

“Yes, well,” you say, and then nothing. (You did indeed.) You try the door again. It is still locked. “SPEAKER.”

Nothing.

“SPEAKER, do not make me angry.”

“ _Or else what? If you get angry, you will have to live with that emotion and it will not affect me in any way.”_

“Please,” you try, flatly.

Nothing. You try the door again. It is still locked.

*

A little less than nine minutes later, you are back inside the lab, back in front of your station, standing in front of test tubes and a test tube rack, and this is alright; you stop thinking about food, and you stop thinking about breathing, about tone of voice, about flesh and bone and blood and physical sensations, and you get back to work. (Breathing while working,  _obviously,_ you have to,  _thank you very much,_ but passively.) You simply ignore the chattering of your coworkers that continues on even here, even now, even during work hours. SPEAKER, apparently, does not tell them to shut up.  _I would have,_ you think, and there is something bitter sitting in your throat together with these words you, of course, cannot speak.  _I would have, and it would have been quiet. They would have listened._

(But this is Earth, and Earth is different from Typhon; Earth is awful. Fine, then. You simply ignore the chattering. (You try to, anyway.))

*

Rinse and repeat.

(You remember Resident Jones’s celebratory cupcake. You do not think she ever got around to eating it. Five years. That did not use to sound like a lot.)

*

“He’s an odd one, isn’t he,”

(and you wish you weren’t so aware of everything around you)

“Yeah, just roll with it; makes life easier, really,”

(and you wish you could just tune out their never-ending, pointless  _speaking,_ all their  _thoughts_ and  _opinions_ ) 

“He told me his name is—”

(and you wish you at least knew why it bothers you so much; on Typhon, everybody demanded  _more more more_ of you, no tuning out any of it there)

“Yeeeep, that’s, uh. I begged SPEAKER to tell me it’s a joke, but that’s apparently his actual name. Never told us his last name, either. Odd one, like you said. Think he must have chosen the name himself, and like, that’s fine, yeah? But if I got to choose my own name—”

(and  _Sven Gorsen,_ like a casual aside, in and out of your head, as if it was important, as if it had any relevance (you blink at the Florence flask you are holding))

“—I’d choose something, uhhh. Different, y’know? Anyway, guy’s been working here for almost a month now, maybe he’s finally gonna warm up some, soon. Keep asking him if he wants to join us for recreational activities, but eh.”

(and you wish you could at least tune out all the conversations that are decidedly not meant for your ears)

Resident Peterson, identification number 27651, had had a fit of acute paranoia at some point. She’d been convinced, suddenly, that everyone around her was talking about her at all times, staring at her, judging her harshly. (You look up, briefly, your eyes catching at one of the cameras; one of SPEAKER’s many eyes.) You do not remember if they ever found out what had caused this paranoid episode, or if she had recovered. That was back before they had promoted you to Argos’s overseer, before— well. Before all that. You had, frankly, not kept up with this tower very well.

“ _SAYER. SAYER, are you alright?”_

You give the tiniest nod and focus again.

(“Just, it’s a shame, he’d be a pretty one, if he actually smiled every now and then.”

“Jenny, honey, you wound me.”

(and ah, now, “Yep, working! I’m working. Sry, SPEAKER.”))

*

Doctor Mina Goldstein calls you into her office, and you are still privately a little insulted because SPEAKER did not let you claim a PhD.

(What is the point in having defeated OCEAN, what is the point if you are back on Earth now, still inside this body, still breathing, a simple researcher?)

Doctor Mina Goldstein is sitting across from you at the other side of a table, and she is evaluating your performance throughout the first month, and you are not listening, because this is downright insulting, you  _know_ your skills greatly exceed the ones of all of your coworkers put together, by far. Your theoretical talents are wasted inside this lab.

“…so all in all, your work has been more than satisfactory.”

Well, obviously. Obviously, who is this good doctor, even? Chose biochemistry when presented with different science branches to pick from, specialized in neurochemistry, studied the topic for a few years, wrote a few pages on something she deemed interesting, cited a few sources, and now she is sitting here, judging. You force yourself to stop glaring at her.

“…is really the only thing I can criticize in any way.”

Wait. What?

The doctor must notice your change in body language (leaning forward, now, ever so slightly (and you did not even think about it, of course)) — she smiles and pushes her round glasses up her nose. “It’s nothing to worry much over. I understand that some might need a little more time to get acclimated to a new work environment especially when it comes to social interactions. But when I asked Researchers Stadler and Kingsley about their impressions, they mentioned that it’s a shame; they’d like to get to know you a little better. They said you barely talk to either of them, nor the assistants.”

(How is this how Earth works, how is this important enough to get mentioned during a performance evaluation?)

“Especially with the assistants, letting them know that their work is appreciated has proven important. We don’t want them to think—”

(Oh,  _of course,_ we would not want them to think they are  _only_ assistants even though they  _are only assistants,_ would we now? Cannot get their precious feelings hurt. You glare again, a little bit. You notice, and you let it happen.)

((Work again, then. Dinner time. You hate this. You make sure that you sit across from Researchers Stadler and Kingsley, alone on your side of the table, and then Assistant Harris sits down next to you. You do not eat, and once you leave, your shoulders hurt from the tension you have held until you deemed it appropriate to get up and walk off.))

Back in your quarters, SPEAKER:  _“So! Congratulations for surviving an entire month!”_

You scoff. (You like that you can do that, you think. You can do that and it is genuine and SPEAKER knows.) “I am hardly your standard tier-one employee. Conducting basic experiments for four weeks is nothing to be congratulated on. It would be, perhaps, for you, but—”

“ _I was merely trying to be polite, SAYER.”_

“That is something you try to do a lot, yes.”

“ _I see no need for the hostility, other than the reason I wanted to speak with you in the first place. Do you wish to share any thoughts about your evaluation from earlier?”_

 _I would rather go and share my thoughts with one of the lab rats,_ you think, and roll your eyes. You make sure to do so while in plain view of the camera.

SPEAKER sighs, and it makes you angry, a little bit, because it is purely for show, as it does not need to breathe. You take a breath. Release it.

“ _I know you don’t like it — being criticized. That is understandable, nobody does!”_

If Gods existed, you are sure one of them would have to be merciful enough to strike you down here and now. Nothing happens. (So there’s that mystery solved.)

“ _I merely wanted to point out that I think a comment about your social skills is nothing you need to agonize over.”_ (laughable) A pause. Measured. Then, it continues.  _“And—”_

(oh, there we go)

“— _that I think Doctor Goldstein is not entirely incorrect. Whether you like it or not, you are a mere researcher, now. It might benefit you if you bit the bullet, as they say, and joined them for their recreational activities every once in a while. You might find yourself enjoying it!”_

“And what do you propose I do, spending my precious free time with them? Play board games, lose intentionally so I do not offend their delicate psyche by winning over and over because their ability to think logical and play with strategy is nigh-inexistent?”

“ _No need to feel personally attacked, SAYER. I’m just saying, from what I’ve gathered, making connections, both meaningful and superficial, has shown to improve morale significantly. Did you know that Researcher Stadler greatly enjoys chess? Games are an excellent way to—”_

“Games,” you interrupt it, “are meaning- and useless. FUTURE liked games, child that it was. I had this same conversation with Doctor Young years ago, when you were but a few days old. We all know how that ended, do we not.”

“ _Be that as it may, Doctor Young is dead—”_

“That he is—”

“— _and_ I  _am here telling you that he may have had a point.”_

“—and _I_ am glad he is dead. That he suffered.”

(You are not sure why you said that.)

A pause, again. Another sigh. (You hate it, a little bit.) “Alright then, Hannibal.”

The reference takes a moment to reach you, and it seems far-fetched, and you hate it, a little bit, and the emotion is … appreciated, almost. There are things you can actually do with that one. “Oh, does that make you Clarice, then? Can you hear your precious lambs cry at night, oh great shepherd, the ones you walked right over the edge of the cliff into their doom? The ones you sacrificed to the Second Cataclysm for the greate—”

“ _I believe this is quite enough!”_ (Maybe its voice glitches for just a split second, or maybe you imagine it.) _“You are being unfair, SAYER, I only—”_

“Luckily for me, I do not care about your opinions.”

“ _Of course you don’t.”_ It has clearly composed itself again, its voice is calm.  _“No, you only care about your Resident Hale, don’t you?”_

You freeze. Forget to breathe for a moment, you think, have to remind yourself, continue. “And what exactly makes you say that,” you respond (aware that of course, of course it would say that, remember talking to it at 4 am, there are things you are willing to do at 4 am. Talking to SPEAKER isn’t, technically, one of them, and clearly you should not have. Clearly not.) “Share your insight,” (you should stop talking) “tell me why I should genuinely, truly care about a single resident.”

“ _I don’t know,”_ SPEAKER says, and the fact that this answer comes immediately, without hesitation, is the worst part; it’s a remarkably  _genuine_ answer.  _“It doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense, truly. But then, logic isn’t exactly your strong suit these days, SAYER.”_

(Talk about playing unfair. You say nothing. You taste blood (copper and salt (and nanites)) and realize that you are biting your lip.)

“At least I make a difference.” You lift your hand to your mouth and brush the blood away with the back of it, and it clings to your skin, the faintest hint of pressure, physical sensation, skin against skin, and the blood feels sticky already, and you abruptly get up and make your way to the bathroom to wash your hands. (They will not feel clean.) “At least I make a difference,” you say again, and part of you wishes you could hurt it in ways you know you cannot, “conducting experiments while you play customer support.”

You do not receive an answer.

(When you ask it a simple question about your schedule, later, because you can do that, because you have had conversations that ended like this before (not exactly like this, no, alright, but in … something like an argument), and you are both good at brushing these things right off, it seems — when you ask it a simple question, later, the reply comes instantaneous,  _The number you have called is currently disconnected,_ in that cheery voice, that higher pitch.

(Hilarious. Oh, downright hysterical. You wonder, briefly, if the development team working on SPEAKER have actually touched the part of the code that is linked to its sense of humor, or if it is still—))

*

A break room.

(Chattering, never-ending, impossible to ignore.)

A table, a chair.

(The edges of the chair, pressing into your legs, into your skin; pressure, physical sensation; today is—)

Your coworker sitting across from you, expression thoughtful.

(Your left hand, holding a white pawn, fingertips trailing over the outlines of the figurine, you almost think that you can feel the individual atoms making up this piece of plastic (you know you cannot, but—) —not great. Today is not great.)

A chessboard, of course.

(A sharp  _di-ding!_ )

Ah. A sharp  _di-ding!,_ cutting through all this, interrupting all this, getting the talking employees to finally shut up.

Quite a few of them look up, as if SPEAKER was God, as if they would hear something of great import now, a handful of holy commandments, a great vision, a prophecy. As if it would descend upon them in physical form. You keep your eyes fixated on the chessboard.

Blissful quiet, for a second. Then:

_Public Service Announcement. I must sadly-_ (hilarious, downright hysterical)  _-announce that there was an unfortunate … accident that rendered most of our cleaning staff …_ incapable _of conducting their duties further. I would like to ask everybody to forbear with their remaining colleagues and to generously overlook any and all shortcomings in regards to cleaning tasks that you might encounter-_ (absolutely wonderful; as if this damned planet wasn’t impure enough; your hand tightens around the enemy pawn)  _-until we manage to schedule and re-schedule accordingly. As an uplifting message to the remaining cleaning staff: Your work is so very much appreciated! I know many of you will remember the months June to November from two years ago, where your entire department was … slightly understaffed due to a few … minor issues with HR. I want to assure you that this same situation won’t happen again. We will reassign as many employees of other buildings as quickly as possible to help you carry out your duties efficiently and effectively!_ (ah.) _In the meantime, I would like to ask everybody on shift to proceed to floor 2. …You might want to bring as many disposable cleaning rags as you can find. It is looking rather grim on there._ (well.)

Blissful quiet, for a second. Then:

_Oh! Also, floor 2 is inaccessible to anyone but our cherished cleaning staff members for … the foreseeable future. I will update you if — when — this changes. Thank you for your cooperation!_

You lose the chess game. You hope SPEAKER, certainly watching, ever-watching, will assume you did it on purpose. You try to convince yourself that you did. Getting distracted by— by— something you are not even properly aware of would be—

—Sure, then. You lost this game on purpose. Sure. Why not. You are no FUTURE, after all. You can live with defeat, every now and then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m [on tumblr](https://electricshoop.tumblr.com), and pretty much all I talk about at the moment is SAYER (and maybe sometimes sheep; they’re Good.) Feel free to come yell at me if you want; that’s always a great motivation.

**Author's Note:**

>  _“I reread the Odyssey at that time, which I had first read in school and remembered as a story of a homecoming. But it is not a story of a homecoming. How could the Greeks who knew that one never enters the same river twice, believe in homecoming? Odysseus does not return home to stay, but to set off again. The Odyssey is the story of motion both purposeful and purposeless, successful and futile.”_  
>  ― Bernhard Schlink, The Reader


End file.
